


Never Numbed

by NimWallace



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Aftermath of a Case, Angst, Background Case, Child Death, Ficlet, Gen, Heavy Angst, M/M, One Shot, Protective Sherlock Holmes, Short, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-02
Updated: 2018-10-02
Packaged: 2019-07-23 16:35:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16162712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NimWallace/pseuds/NimWallace
Summary: In which we gain insight to the more delicate, protective side of Holmes.





	Never Numbed

**Author's Note:**

> TW: PLEASE NOTE THAT THIS STORY INCLUDES A WRITTEN DEPICTION OF A CHILD'S CORPSE

The case had been a sad one from the start.  
A little boy had gone missing shortly after the mysterious death of his mother. The boy's grandmother had then inquired, suspecting that the boy's father had some hand in this.  
Holmes had already formed several theories, and all of them ended in tragedy.  
He was almost certain now that it was not the father, but indeed the very bitter brother of the man (brother-in-law to the women and uncle to the child), who wished to cause his brother pain for childhood bullying.  
Right now, the father (Paul Rens) was being interrogated, probably with no clue who had actually killed his family.  
The carriage they were in (Holmes and Watson, that is) was to take them to a country side cabin where the boy and his father often went fishing.  
Holmes knew, as he watched the hills and fields go by under the ashen grey sky, that he would discover the body of six-year old Bobby Rens decomposing inside that cabin, likely in the attic.  
He glanced at his Watson, who watched the scenery, oblivious to the horror that awaited them upon their arrival.  
_I shall send him on some idle errand,_ Holmes thought. _Then I will look._  
So when the carriage stopped and they got out, Holmes did not let Watson get within ten feet of the rickety fishing shack, fearing the smell would give it away.  
“I need something of you, my dear man,” he said, swallowing the bile in his throat to look at John.  
“Oh, what is that?”  
“The field over yonder, can you go look over there for traces of the boy? Broken twigs, small fires, things of that nature.”  
Watson's eyebrows furrowed, because he saw the look on Holmes's face, and he heard the exhaustion in his voice.  
But he asked no questions, and did what Holmes said.  
Holmes waited until Watson was out of his sight before diving into the cabin.  
  
It was, unfortunately, as he expected.  
He found young Bobby in the garret, and it was evident he had been there for several days.  
Rigor mortis had set in, and his skin had gone that shade of ashen grey and blue Holmes had seen too many times. His eyes were open and the last of his pasty skin clung to his bones.  
Holmes had told the Yard to stay nearby, and called them quickly upon making the discovering, turning his back and fleeing the cabin as soon as he could.  
Several of the Yarders had to excuse themselves to relieve them of their breakfasts.  
Holmes stood away from the shed, nauseated. The beads of sweat on his arms seemed to make all of his skin itch and crawl, and he felt for a moment he might suffocate.  
Shortly after the coroner had taken the body away beneath a sheet, Watson came jogging back.  
“I couldn't find anything, Holmes,” he panted. “What—“  
He saw the Yard detectives' and Holmes's expressions.  
“Oh dear,” he said softly. “Oh dear god, no.”  
Holmes nodded, taking his arm.  
“We are free to go,” he said quietly. “It is in Lestrade's hands now. I will break the news to dear Mrs Rens tomorrow—I think she shall need a good night's sleep first.”  
With that, they left the scene.  
  
The ride back to London was a long, quiet one, and for majority of it, they both sat in suppressed silence.  
They both felt too ill to smoke, but Watson did sit next to Holmes and take his hand, squeezing it every so often.  
Holmes knew that Watson must be having a harder time with this than he was—after all, the lifeless bodies of children were not something Holmes had never seen before.  
But he was never numbed to it—it always shook him something awful, and he found it difficult to think of anything except the glossy green eyes and the blood caked lips.  
When hey returned to Baker Street, Watson politely asked Mrs. Hudson not to disturb them the rest of the night—they would not be needing dinner, thank you—and followed Holmes quietly up the stairs.  
He shut the door quietly behind him and looked at Holmes.  
“You knew, didn't you?” he said gently. “That's why you sent me away.”  
Holmes met his eyes with something of a struggle.  
“I wanted to spare you,” he said softly. “There was no need for you to see that.”  
Watson sighed, taking Holmes's hand in his own.  
“You are sweet,” he said, placing a kiss upon his knuckles, “too sweet, I'd say. I should have been by your side.”  
Holmes shook his head, looking away, and Watson caught him immediately—damn how well he knew him—taking his chin and turning his face back towards him.  
“You needn't hide from me, you know,” he said gently. “I want to help, however I can. I felt sick at just the notion, I cannot imagine the sight.”  
But Sherlock could—and did, every time he closed his eyes.  
“It is ridiculous,” he said, frustrated. “I am a grown man in a dangerous line of work, I should expect—“  
“Stop that, now,” John said sternly. But Holmes's voice had already begun to crack. “You are a grown man in a dangerous line of work, and you are also a human being with feelings. It is nothing to be ashamed of. I demand you do not blame yourself.”  
Sherlock nodded reluctantly, not meeting his eyes.  
“Now,” John said, a bit softer. “What can I do to help you? Do you want to talk about it? Or should a distraction of some sort be better?”  
“A-a distraction,” Sherlock stammered. “If—would you—“  
“Anything.”  
“Would you read to me? That book of poetry you have.”  
“Of course.”  
  
It was a long month, that January—but it was shortly after another case—(that of Darlene Peterson) came to light with a very joyous ending which cheered them both.  
Watson never wrote up the Rens case, and it remains buried in a file somewhere in Holmes's desk.  


 


End file.
